While Gordon makes a point of fighting his way off the dance floor and joining me at the bar, Little Steve staggers over to the DJ, issues an instruction and staggers back.
‘Let’s test it out. Where’s Maya?’ He hiccoughs, and seems to retch. ‘Millionaires. Flies round a cow pat with that one.’ He snorts like a demented pig. ‘Ah, there you are.’ He points directly at us.
My body tenses.
‘Now then, you two haven’t had a kiss all night and he dances like a queen, so. Time for the test! Take it away, maestro!’
The song begins. Cher, ‘It’s in his Kiss’. And I can’t stop the horror from spreading across my face.
‘What do they want?’ I shout.
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Gordon points at his mouth.
‘No. I can’t do it.’
‘I think we’d better.’
He nods at the crowd on the dance floor. Without exception, they’re all staring at us, clapping maniacally, urging us to get on with it.
‘This is a complete fucking nightmare,’ I complain.
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Now!’ Little Steve screeches into microphone. ‘Do it!’
I know it’s a drunken joke, but this really is pushing things too far. Hopping off the stool, I plant a quick kiss on Gordon’s lips and grab my handbag.
‘Get Carl to pick me up.’
And with that, I march towards the door. It’s time to get out of here. I’ve made it through the bar and out into the market hall when Lucy catches up with me.
‘Where are you going?’ she demands.
‘Home.’
‘But I can’t go yet. I promised I’d stay until the end.’
‘Then stay. It’s not a problem.’
‘Wait,’ Gordon calls, pushing through the door and joining us. ‘What’s going on?’
I should tell him the truth, that I’m off to see Lily. Because I need to talk. I really, bloody need to talk. And right now, if she’s come to her senses, Lily’s about the only person I can confide in.
‘I want to go home. I’ve had enough.’
‘Don’t blame you.’ He pulls out his mobile. ‘I’ll get my jacket.’
‘No. Stay for a while. You’re having fun.’
‘Evidently, too much fun. I’m coming back with you.’
I hold up a hand.
‘I’ll be fine … on my own.’
He shakes his head.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Gordon, I’ve been fine all week. You know I’ll be safe. I’ve got Carl. Please. I need some space and you need to butter up the clients. Just take me to the car, come back here and tell them I’m not well.’
He thinks for a moment or two, glances back at the door to the pub, and finally nods.
Chapter Eighteen
‘I need to see someone before I go home.’
I look at the rear-view mirror, a lozenge of darkness against the kaleidoscope of Tottenham Court Road. Carl’s eyes flash back at me.
‘Who?’
‘Lily Babbage. A friend of Dan’s. She’s waiting for me at the Concordia … on the north bank.’
Saying nothing, he focusses back on the road, and I begin to feel distinctly uneasy. Maybe he’s under orders to ignore my requests, or perhaps he just feels the need to check with his bosses. Whatever’s going on, I should explain a little more.
‘I didn’t tell Gordon. I’ll go back to Camden afterwards. It won’t take long, but I really need to see her. Please.’ Still no answer. ‘Perhaps you should radio in, let them know I’m taking a detour.’
His eyes are back on me.
‘I’ll do that,’ he says crisply. ‘What’s the address for the Concordia?’
I give him what he needs, watching as he enters the details into the Satnav. As soon as the car pulls up at a set of traffic lights, he takes his mobile from the dashboard, taps in a contact and begins to speak. ‘I have Miss Scotton with me. She’s making a brief stop off before she goes home. She needs to see a friend.’ He confirms he’ll stay with me for the duration before listening to a voice at the other end of the line. ‘I’d say half an hour.’ He hangs up.
‘Is that okay?’ I ask.
He nods. His eyes flash again, this time catching the red glow of the traffic lights. As the colour changes to green, he looks away and we begin to move. Relieved to be getting what I want, I slump back into the leather seat and watch the ever-changing slideshow of Central London: pavements heaving with bodies, brightly-lit shops, pubs, theatres, restaurants, all busy. A hive of humanity on the other side of the glass, a world apart from mine.
I can barely remember what it feels like to be normal. I can only hope that speaking to Lily will help bring me back to reality. Realising I’d better let her know I’m on my way, I riffle through my handbag, managing to locate my purse, a hair brush, the pregnancy test wrapped tightly in its plastic shroud … but no phone. In a fluster, I dig through the contents again. Finding nothing, I give up and stare out of the window.
‘I think my phone’s been nicked.’
‘When did you last have it?’
‘I don’t know. I might have left it at Slaters.’ I think again, shake my head. ‘No. I’m sure I brought it out with me.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll contact Foultons.’
‘But Dan uses it. He tracks me. He’ll wonder where I am.’
The answer’s terse.
‘Don’t worry.’
We circle Trafalgar Square, the hubbub of Friday night giving way to a quieter, more sober environment: Whitehall, Westminster, the Houses of Parliament. Veering right at the Thames and staying on the north side, we head west, probing deeper into territory I’ve never explored before, cold Government buildings, bland office blocks, empty-windowed, abandoned for the night. At last the Bentley slows, pulling in to
